Information about the computer file:

Title: Florus and the Robber
Author: Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin
Translator: John Albert Barnstead
Edition: Version 1 of the ETC Kuzmin Collection edition of
Responsibility: John Barnstead, chief editor
Responsibility: Vivien Hannon, editor
Publisher: Electronic Text Centre, Dalhousie University, Nova Scotia, Canada: Kuzmin Collection, May 2002
Source: Translated from
Encoding: Encoded in TEI-conformant SGML by Konstantin Kostyukevich.

Every time Florus Emilius rushed up to the opposite wall, made of the same glittering red stone, he would turn his wan face back so impetuously, and his steps would be so resounding and so unlike the usual lightness of his stride, that the old slave and the mute boy sitting on the floor would tremble each time and roll their eyes when the hem of their master's light blue clothing softly brushed over them as he turned.

As if tired from pacing, he sent the old man away, shaking his head with his eyes closed as a sign that he refused to hear out domestic reports. The boy, who had crawled up to where he was sitting, kissed his knee and looked into his eyes. He whistled for his large retriever and the three of them went out into the garden, where again they walked back and forth one after the other: the master silent, with broad strides, the mute boy mincing, the retriever hurrying along, tossing its big head.

Calmed by this second fatigue, Florus entered the house and continued the missive he had already begun: " . . . you will think what I am about to tell you childishness, but this trifle deprives me of that peace and equanimity which are needed by all who value human dignity. A few days ago I met a common man I had never seen before, but so familiar to my gaze that, did I share the Brahman teaching on metaphsychosis, I would think we had met in a previous life. And even stranger, the thought of this meeting grows stronger in my head, as beans swell and split when left in water overnight, and gives me no peace. I am prepared to go myself to seek out this man, hesitant to trust the task to another, ashamed of my weakness. Perhaps this is due to the imperfect state of my health: frequent dizziness, insomnia, despair and reasonless terror do not permit it to be considered satisfactory. The man I met had grey eyes of uncommon brightness, swarthy skin and dark hair; in height and build he was as I. Greetings to Calpurnia, kiss the children; I sent the amphoras to your city house some time ago. Once again good health to you."

The doctor was silent for a time, then asked: "How would you describe your condition, sir?"

"I have never experienced the situation of a man incarcerated in a prison, but I think my condition might be nearest to his. For some time my movements have been restricted, my very will seems limited; I want to walk -- and I cannot; if I want to breathe -- I am stifled; fretsome worry and despair govern me." Florus fell silent, as if he had grown tired of speaking, then paled and began again: "Perhaps my conception of the prison was influenced by a dream I had before my illness."

"You had a dream?"

"Yes, so clear, so obvious! And strange, it seems to be continuing right into the present moment, and if I wished (I am certain) I could live in it continuously, considering you, my friend, a phantom."

"It doesn't upset you to tell it to me?"

"No, no!" Emilius answered hurriedly, wiping away the beads of sweat which stood forth on his pale forehead. He began, as if remembering with an effort; in spurts, with a voice which now rose suddenly to a scream, now fell to a rustling whisper.

"Tell no one what you are about to hear . . . swear it . . . perhaps this is the truth itself. I don't know . . . did I kill -- don't think it . . . it was there, in the dream. I ran, wandered for a long time living on berries (I remember: wild cherries), stealing bread, milk straight from the cows' udders in the field. Oh, the sun burned and the swamps intoxicated! Going in through the harbour gates, I was held for having stolen a knife. A tall red- headed merchant (yes, they yelled "Titus" at him) held me, weak and confused; a redhaired woman laughed loudly, a red dog squealed between her legs, carnations flooded the pavement, soldiers in bronze came . . . I was struck . . . the sun blazed. Then darkness and a stuffy chill. Oh, chill of the garden's bright springs, mountain breeze, where are you? . . "

And Florus, drained of his strength, fell silent and bowed his head. The doctor said "Go to sleep" and went to the steward to speak about the sick man. The mute boy listened, with greedily widened eyes and mouth. Towards evening Florus called his old nurse. Squatting, old, having exhausted her store of tales and childhood reminiscences, she spoke broken phrases about what her decrepit eyes had seen and what her deafened ears had heard. Muffling herself in her cloak she mumbled: "My son, a few days ago I saw a murderer: the knife was in his hands, but his face wasn't horrifying; his eyes were bright, so bright, dark hair, he looked a boy. My son-in-law, the shopkeeper Titus, was holding him . . ."

Florus cried out, grabbing her by the hand: "Don't! Don't! Get out! Titus, you say? Titus, witch?"

At the shouting the boy ran frightened into the chamber.

Many more days passed in this struggle, and the sick man often said: "I can't anymore: it's more than I can bear!" and the pale face of the sufferer of the secret illness somehow blackened. Dark circles edged his eyes, and his voice seemed to issue from a parched throat. He slept not a night, torturing the mute boy with terror.

One morning, rising before dawn, he demanded his hat and cloak, as if to set out on the road. The old man refrained from asking a question, and Florus answered his gaze with only: "You will follow me!"

The master's stride was again light and free; a flush returned scarlet roses to his hollowed cheeks. Turns along the streets and squares lead them far from home, providing no clues for the slave. Finally he dared to ask, when they stopped as if they had reached their goal -- "Will you go in here, sir?"

"Yes."

Florus's voice rang forth carelessly. They entered the prison. Since Florus Emilius was known to be rich and celebrated, he met with no trouble in getting in, his way smoothed by a modest payment, to see whether or not his slave, who had supposedly fled not long ago, could be found among the prisoners. Quickly, keen-eyed, he rummaged through the prison to the last cellar, as if searching with his gaze for already familiar eyes. Sighing, he asked: "All the prisoners are here? No more remain?"

"There are no more, sir. Yesterday one escaped . . ."

"Escaped? . . His name? . . "

"Malchus."

"Malchus?" as if listening closer, he repeated, "bright-eyed, swarthy, black-haired?" asked the joyful Florus.

"Yes, you're right, sir," the warden nodded his head. Emilius Florus was merry as never before when he left the building; he spoke like a child, with gleaming eyes which had not lost their dark circles.

"My old Mummus, look: was the sky ever so affectionate, were the trees and grass ever so friendly?! We will go to my farms on foot; I will eat wild cherries and drink milk right from the udder. The days pass so tenderly! You will obtain a girl for me, smelling of grass, goat, and a touch of onion; we won't take Luka the mute to the country. Ah, old Mummus, am I not healthier than ever? The clouds -- it's like spring, like spring!"

Early in the morning Florus joyfully prepared for the road, leaving behind the affable house on his estate to take long walks along the narrow and wide ways. The Gorgo found for him was quiet, taciturn, submissive and simple as a heifer; she gave her swarthy body up to him easily and completely; she waited in the house, singing old songs.

Having come running on his own, Luka the mute accompanied the master everywhere, rejoicing with his sad eyes and tired adolescent face. He followed silently, never for an instant leaving Florus in his newly-returned merriment. If only one could always walk along the mountain roads, lie on grass motley with flowers, tirelessly gaze into the blue firmament while resting on one's back, sing simple village songs, making the mute blow into the two-stemmed flute! The clouds stood above the groves and the river in a quiet formation, white, blazing white, blinding white: they waited. With traces of milk on his lips, unshaven, red- mouthed, Florus kissed Gorgo, forgetting his urban languor, ignoring the odor of onion, Luka the mute wept in a corner. Day followed after day as flower after flower woven into a wreath.

One evening, in the midst of carefree play, Florus stopped, as if clouded over by despair or seized by an invisible enemy. Immediately gasping, he said: "What is this? Where has this darkness come from? This captivity?" He lay down on a low bed and turned to the wall, sighing silently. Gorgo entered softly, embraced him without him seeing her. Florus pushed her away, saying: "Who are you? I don't know you, it isn't time: look, the rattling of the lock will wake up the sleeping guard." She stepped back silently, and the mute again crawled in like a dog, kissing his trailing hand.

The night was stifling for the servants sleeping at the entrance to Florus's bedchamber. Only Luka stayed with the master, mute and devoted. For a long time only the footsteps of Emilius pacing back and forth could be heard. Towards morning the servants were lost in a light predawn sleep. Suddenly the air was split by a wail unlike a human voice. It seemed as though something unearthly had screeched "Death!" waking an early echo.

Lingering at first, the servants knocked at the door and were admitted to the chamber by the mute youth, whose face was an unrecognizable mask of terror. "Death, death!" he asserted in a wild voice, unused to uttering words. Not even struck by the sounds of the mute, the servants rushed to the bed where, with blackened head thrown back, the master lay motionless. Luka returned to Florus's bed as if to an abandoned place and bent to the floor, noiselessly and quickly broken.

The doctor and the steward were quickly sent the ill-omened news.

The mute said "death" over and over, as if the power of speech had been given him again only for this one, this single word.

Florus lay with blackened face thrown back and lifeless hand trailing. When the doctor had examined the body and certified the death, he pointed out to the steward in amazement a narrow, dark, and swollen bruise about the neck of the deceased -- it was impossible to find any explanation for it. The only witness of Florus Emilius's death, Luka the mute, overcoming the divine tongue-tangle of the marvellous terror which had restored to him the gift of the word, said: "Death! Death! Again it is finished . . . he walked and walked, lay down on the bed as if he were tired, . . he didn't say a word to me; toward morning he began to wheeze; worried, I rushed to him, he rolled his eyes at me and then closed them, wheezing. Gods! Morning gleamed red at the window. Florus didn't move, -- he had turned black . . . "

In the sorrow and cares of mourning Luka was forgotten.

It was barely light the next morning when a barefoot, ragged old man, unknown to anyone, came asking to see Florus. The steward came out, thinking to learn some explanation for the death of the master. The arrival was stubborn and simple in appearance. A pack of dogs barked round about.

"You didn't know that the master Florus Emilius had passed away?"

"No. It doesn't matter. I carried out the orders given me."

"By whom?"

"Malchus."

"Who is he?"

"Now -- one who has departed."

"He's dead?"

"Yesterday morning he was hanged."

"He knew the master?"

"No. He sent him, a stranger, love and news of death. In your house the mute shall speak."

"They speak already," said Luka, who came up and bowed over the old man's dirty hand.

"Will you not look upon the deceased?"

"To what end? Has his face changed very much?"

"Very much."

"The noose changed the other's too. He has a large mark on the neck."

"Have you much to say?"

"No, I am leaving."

"I will go with you!" said Luka fondly to the stranger.

The sun had already tinted the courtyard with rose and the hired women uttered piercing cries to heaven, baring their withered breasts.

July, 1908